Three Arrows
by TheAvengingAngelsAreHere
Summary: What if Clint hadn't made the decision to save Natasha? He was very dedicated to his work, after all. And he wanted the glory that came with killing the Black Widow. So instead of saving her, he killed her. She was just another target after all. She deserved her death. What happens when Clint finds the spirit of Natasha Romanoff haunting him? A very experimental fic!
1. Hunting The Black Widow

**A/N I've been writing my Hogwartvenger fic and this plot bunny popped up. I had to write it.**

**It's a very experimental fic, and I imagine it may not be well received. If it's not I won't continue it, but hell I figured why not give it a go?**

**I hope you read/Enjoy it.**

**Please review.**

**Chapter One**

**Hunting The Black Widow**

It only took one arrow to kill targets usually. However Clint always packed three. One shot as a warning, to let them know he was there, one for the leg to halt their escape, and a third destined for the victim's heart. Could you call Clint's targets victims? That was perhaps debatable. In his head, no. They deserved this death. All were handpicked by SHIELD to be killed for a reason. They were evil. Monsters.

"Your mission is simple, Agent Barton. Find the Black Widow, and exterminate her," Clint's handler Coulson barked down the phone. The Widow had been on their hit list for over a year and every other agent who went after her either failed miserably, or ended up assassinated before they could try. Clint wasn't worried though. Not at all. He knew for a fact that he was more powerful than she was. It was a close call, but he was just slightly better.

"Got it. Already located her."

Clint was in Munich. As soon as the word got out that the Black Widow was in Germany, SHIELD had shipped its best agents out to various locations. The Widow is fast. Incredibly fast and as soon as they managed to pin her down in one location, she would always slip out of their grasp. This time SHIELD moved incredibly quickly to get to her. They closed in, stopped airports from allowing planes to leave, and made sure border security had the girl's picture. There was no way she would be allowed to leave Germany. If she did, SHIELD would be waiting. Still, the girl had a mission to carry out. Assassinate the daughter of a politician stationed in Munich. As long as the girl was alive, the Black Widow would not try leave.

She was persistent. Just like Clint.

Clint loaded up his quiver. Got his three arrows ready. It wasn't cocky, and during battles or major missions he would certainly take more, but for simple assassinations, three was all that was needed. Checking his weapons one more time, he smirked. Killing the Black Widow would certainly gain him respect in SHIELD. They knew he was talented, obviously he wouldn't be employed if they didn't think so, but his choice of weaponry was something of a joke among agents of all ages and statuses.

Clint would show them. Their guns and knives couldn't kill the Black Widow.

His arrows could.

The mark was easy enough to track, her hair colour was rather conspicuous. The flash of red hurried through the backstreets of the more derelict part of town, which surprised him. Her target was supposed to be very upper class. He supposed she knew that he was coming for her. That her end was nearing. Crafty, hiding in a part of town that she wasn't supposed to be in. Quickly he swept the area, looking for other agents of KGB. Nobody. The Black Widow ducked into a decrepit, probably abandoned building for refuge and Clint followed. Stalking along the rafters, he followed her, loading up his bow with the warning arrow.

"Who's there?" She called in a thick Russian accent. Clint peered at her, taking in her tense stance. Could it be true? Was the Black Widow actually scared? He doubted it.

Clint released the arrow, watching it as it soared through the air and landed at her feet. She reached down and picked up the arrow, seeing the note Clint had attached.

_Love Hawkeye._

The paper fluttered to the floor as she darted around, trying to find sanctuary. Clint clutched one of the many chains that hung from the ceiling, used for heavy lifting years ago when the warehouse was in operation. The glint of silver was the only contrast to the otherwise dark, damp wooded appearance of the room. He abseiled down the wall, and moved quickly through the shadows, keeping a close eye on the Widow.

The second arrow was loaded and released, quickly digging into the woman's calf. Clint smiled in grim satisfaction as she cried out. The woman was a good actress, that much he could tell. But Clint wasn't buying it. She was vicious, and a fighter. However the wound he created would be a hindrance.

What confused him though was she sank to her knees, not even reaching for her guns.

"Come out, Hawkeye," She called, her voice softer than before.

He stayed in the shadows, studying her carefully. This could be a trap. It most likely was. Though he did have the upper hand, he wasn't going to risk it.

"I want to see the face of my killer," She added, running a shaky hand through her hair. Clint analyzed the action. Perhaps it was to give him a sense of security, that she was nervous. "Please. I accept defeat. I'm ready," Despite her shakiness, her voice was firm.

Clint eventually stepped out of the shadows, keeping his final arrow aimed at her.

"Ah. The famous Black Widow. I must say, you're talented. I might even say it's a pleasure to meet you," He replied smoothly, on edge. The place was silent. She really was alone.

"I'm not getting out of Germany. I know this. I'm not stupid. I kill you, they just send more. Ironically SHIELD is acting like the Hydra," The woman muttered, flashing Clint a look of pure loathing.

"Yes, well, I'm the lucky man who gets to dispose of you," Clint's expression was stern, not backing down from her glare. "Hawkeye. Or Agent Barton. Whichever you prefer," He introduced himself.

"Agent Barton. It makes you seem more…human," She shook her head a little. There was absolutely nothing human about this situation. "Black Widow. However my name is Natalia Romanova, or perhaps you'd rather call me Natasha, my preferred name."

"I know who you are," Clint shot back. He had read her files. He just preferred to think of her as the Black Widow. The venomous, extraordinarily spider that just needed squashed. Like she said, calling her Natasha would make her seem more human. He didn't like that.

In this light she seemed very young. Eighteen or so. Age didn't matter to Clint. He had killed younger. And the girl was a trained killer. It didn't matter how pretty she was. Or how much potential she had. Natasha- The Black Widow- was just another mark. Nothing more.

"For what it's worth, I'm sorry. I know I will be punished for my crimes and sins in the afterlife. No matter where I go, I'm doomed. I have accepted this fate. You may proceed," Natasha hung her head, her long red curls obscuring her face.

It really was too easy. The woman was on her knees before him, awaiting her sentence to be carried out. Her crimes were not Clint's place to judge, but hell, he was just the executioner.

"You're not sorry," Clint replied sharply, his tone causing her to wince.

"Perhaps I'm not. I've done many things in my life, none of them I regard as particularly awful. You, however, think I am a monster," Her voice was quiet.

"I'm not weak. I'm certainly not going to get drawn into this act. This arrow is meant for you," Clint snapped, drawing the string back.

"I know."

"For what it's worth, you're the most talented person I've killed," He added, feeling a twinge of guilt.

"I know."

"Tell me, Black Widow, are you ready to die?"

When she looked up, her eyes betrayed a certain fear Clint had not known was possible. He had believed the woman was emotionless. But she was scared. He could see it in her eyes.

"Yes," She replied, softly lying to appear stronger.

"Very well," Clint closed his eyes and released the arrow, hearing a sharp intake of breath, followed by a dull thud.

There was no cliché. No blinding light for her to float up into. She never faded away into darkness. She wished she had. Part of her wanted to be engulfed by nothingness. To feel serenity and peace wash over her, cooling her skin, and her frantic mind. The gates of hell didn't open up, sending out demons to drag her down. There were no angels either. No seemingly endless stairways that disappeared into the clouds.

Death was pain. And the world just seemed more vivid. Lurid. There was red everywhere.

Clint wouldn't leave until he was sure she was dead. The Black Widow floundered before him, gasping in obvious agony. Her slurred voice cried out for him, begging for help as she died. Clint almost felt bad for her, the death wasn't a fast process. Her blood was flowing slowly from the wound, which was probably causing her a lot of suffering.

Another stab of guilt had Clint reaching for his pocket knife. He drew the knife quickly across her throat, knowing that would speed up her death. It was a pity kill.

The Black Widow exhaled a shuddering last breath and that was that. Another target hit.

"Coulson, you copy? The Black Widow is dead," He said down his comm, his voice monotonous.

Receiving the time and place of the debriefing, Clint groaned, looking down at the body. A clean up team would take care of it. He reached down and removed the arrow, relieved to see a peaceful expression on her face. "Rest Natasha," He said softly, before leaving the warehouse, placing the three arrows back in his quiver, blood staining the tips of two.

* * *

The journey home was long and dull, as was the debriefing. Most of SHIELD offered Clint congratulations on his triumphant defeat of the famous Black Widow. For some reason he hated hearing the name. The death was actually quite troubling for him. Most deaths were sad, but this one in particular made him feel awful. Clint now sat cleaning the dried blood off his arrows. He traced the length of the one that killed Natasha, closing his eyes. Something about her death felt wrong. Normally he accepted that he killed people, and although he felt an attack on his conscience, he could usually drown his troubles in whiskey, and get over it. Perhaps it was because he dehumanized her. Clint had referred to her only as 'The Widow' or 'Black Widow'. He never acknowledged that she was Natasha. She was someone who couldn't help her fate.

He could hear her pleas for help. She had pleaded for a faster death. And Clint was all too happy to oblige. Part of him wished he hadn't killed her at all. But he did. Why? Because it was his job. Clint was a good soldier. He followed orders.

But so did Natasha. Her job was following orders. Sure, the orders were awful and evil, but she was just doing her job. Was that really so bad?

'Yes' Clint thought, trying to keep telling himself this.

Thankfully his apartment was in good supply of whiskey. He would probably need a little extra to get over this death. The problem with Clint's apartment was it clearly wasn't used enough. He was forever on missions, and only came home during his brief periods off. The fact it wasn't used much meant that the place wasn't cared for. It was an overall dreary atmosphere. Small TV, one sofa, one bedroom. There were creaky floorboards, electrical problems and a very small amount of hot water. Still, the place was home. There was a coldness to the room, which Clint was confused about. Usually the heating was the one thing that worked here.

Clint dropped down on his sofa, rubbing his forehead slowly, "Snap out of it, Barton. She deserved death," He muttered, trying to reassure himself.

He pulled out the arrow that killed Natasha, staring at the blood stained tip. Twirling it around in his hands, he lamented the deaths he had caused. Perhaps he was a monster too. Really, what made him so different from Natasha? Clint had always told himself that he only killed the bad guys, and Natasha had killed innocents. The fact that he so quickly killed her scared him. He didn't even give her a chance. He should of. He tossed the arrow, watching it sail through the air and hit the floor on the other side of the room.

"Help me," Clint heard a strangled voice whisper. He looked over his shoulder, jumping up, worried. These people were dead. He had nothing to worry about. The room was obviously empty. Clint screwed the cap bad on his whiskey. "Enough," He muttered.

"Help me," A stronger voice echoed around the room.

"What the fuck," Clint hissed, clutching his forehead. Right now he was cold, tipsy and slightly scared.

"Help me!"

Clint spun round, freezing when he saw the red head standing holding the discarded arrow.

"You're not real. I'm drunk," Clint whispered, backing away from his victim, shaking his head.

"You may have been drinking, but I am very much real," Natasha clutched the arrow to her chest, her hands shaking.

Clint studied her, really taking in her appearance. She was pale. Too pale. Her skin was tinted slightly blue. There were dark circles around the dull green eyes, which once held so much life in them. She was dressed in a black dress which contrasted her skin, and her red hair hung in greasy ringlets. There was a long, deep scar on her neck.

"I'm dreaming," He eventually mumbled.

"You're not. I promise you. You're not," Natasha approached him slowly, handing him the arrow. "I don't know why I'm here," Her eyes were wide, and she appeared frightened, "I'm supposed to be dead. I don't want to be here. You killed me, Clint Barton."

"Just leave then," Clint groaned, rubbing his forehead. At this point, he was going to believe anything. By morning, she'd be gone.

"I can't."

**A/N This is just a little taster. I hope you enjoyed it. It's very experimental (on my part. I've never written anything like this) so I hope you enjoyed it, and please review!**


	2. Never Drinking Whiskey Again

**A/N Thank you very much for all the positive feedback. I'm glad you enjoyed the first chapter! I wrote chapter two during work today. I hope you like it!**

**Chapter Two**

**Never Drinking Whiskey Again**

Hangovers were the worst. Clint had learned this over time. This one was especially bad. But then again, last night's kill was especially bad. Clint had actually hallucinated seeing her. The Black Widow. That was awful. In the past there had been agents who had seen their targets after killing them, but Clint had laughed it off. Said that they were crazy and needed a few weeks off. And now Clint was one of them. One thing Clint had prided himself on was his sensible mind. Clearly he had to rethink a few things.

"Morning," A voice interrupted his train of thought. Clint jumped, his heart thudding as he sat up. "How's the hangover?"

"Clearly worse than I thought, if you're still here," Clint spat, rubbing his forehead, not daring to look up at Natasha. The red haired girl was lounging on the chair opposite him. It took Clint a while to get his bearings. Apparently he had passed out on the sofa, clutching an empty bottle of whiskey to his chest.

"Oh how rude," Natasha replied, her voice nothing more than a wisp. She stood up, approaching him, "Although not as rude as you killing me. I told you, I can't leave."

Clint scrambled backwards, tossing the bottle at her, "Get away!"

The bottle flew through her abdomen, and the glass smashed against the wall. Natasha's form started to blur a little, before resetting. It seemed she was intangible. That both was a relief and a concern. It meant she probably couldn't pick stuff up and kill him, or try to fight him. But at the same time, it meant he couldn't hurt her if she were to attack. Clint guessed they were at a stalemate.

"You really are rather rude, aren't you, Clint Barton?" She smirked, looking down at her stomach. She trailed a finger over the spot the bottle passed through, "Death is curious, isn't it?"

Clint rolled his eyes at the rude comment. Nobody said he had to be polite to a ghost. "Yeah. It is. So why don't you scamper back off to the land of the dead? Leave me alone?"

"So you're rude, and stupid," She muttered, "I can't go to wherever I am destined to go. I am stuck! I've tried leaving this apartment, but I can't."

"You can't leave? Well I sure as hell can," He shot back, heading for the door.

"Wait! I'm not going to hurt you!" Natasha called after him, running a hand through her tangled, knotted hair. She really looked like hell. That bothered her. She wanted to appear presentable in death.

"I killed you. Of course you're going to take revenge. A vengeful spirit, right?"

"I don't want revenge, Barton," She snapped, gliding over to him. Tentatively she reached up, placing her hand on his shoulder. The sensation was weird, on Clint's part. His shoulder felt cold. He felt no pressure on it, just a soothing feeling. For once, he didn't flinch away.

"Then what do you want?" He asked carefully, looking down at her.

"Peace," She whispered, dropping her gaze, "You told me to rest when you killed me. I can't rest. It's too hard."

Clint bit his lip. He did say that, right? He had been more gentle after he killed her. Given her sympathy. Now Clint felt the same sympathy as he stared down at the girl who was stuck in the wrong life.

"I want to move on. I am miserable here," She continued, taking a step back. The cold sensation on Clint's shoulder disappeared, immediately warming to usual temperature. "I miss life. Miss the simple things. I miss being able to drink, though I don't miss the hangovers. I miss eating, like I imagine you'll be doing soon. I know it's odd but I miss showering. Water. Getting clean. I feel so dirty right now," She wrapped her arms around herself. "Filthy in life, filthy in death. Perhaps this is my punishment."

"Do you have any idea why you are here?" Clint asked, ignoring her little speech. It didn't concern him, after all, where she was placed in the afterlife.

"Like I said, it's probably punishment. I anticipated hell, but I'm not there. Not burned to a crisp. I'm just...cold."

"A punishment? Is this you doomed to eternity?"

"Oh god," She moaned, turning around, "I really hope not. No offense, but I don't want to be hanging around you for the rest of your life."

"That brings me to my other question. Did you choose to haunt me or did Mr Higher Power select this for you?" He raised his eyebrows.

"I didn't choose this. I don't know. All I want to do is rest," She sighed, walking over to the window, "I can't even go outside," She pressed her forehead against the window, and Clint watched, marvelling as the corners of the glass slowly frosted. Curious. By the time she pulled her hand away, Clint couldn't even see outside his window, the thin sheen of frost encasing it.

"I don't like this. I want to die. Properly. I don't want to be stuck halfway between this life and the next," She turned around to glare at Clint, before sweeping over. "This is your fault. You fix it!" Her tone took on a more commanding one. Clint groaned, ducking his head. When he signed up for killing the Black Widow, he didn't think it would be this hard.

"How?" His tone was careful as he stepped backwards.

"I don't know. You killed me, you figure it out."

"Well...you're clearly a restless spirit. I guess what we need to try and do is put you to rest," Clint eventually deduced. "No fucking clue how to do that though."

"Try something. Anything!" She demanded.

"I'll just go call Ghostbusters," Clint smirked in response, before humming the famous tune.

"Is that supposed to be funny?"

"God, the dead really don't have a sense of humour, do they?" He laughed, trying to clear the air of the awkwardness.

"Shut up."

"It's my apartment, I can act the way I want to."

"You killed me. Don't I get special rights?"

Clint cursed under his breath. So she had a point. He did kill her, and put her into this situation. Then again, any agent who killed her would probably have to deal with the ghost. Lucky Clint. The glory that came from killing the Black Widow really wasn't worth it.

"Fine. Well you can sit in the corner and shut up until we figure out what our next move will be," Clint sighed.

"You can't tell me what to do. You're not the boss of me. I'm dead."

"You've mentioned. Several times."

"God, you're infuriating," Natasha snapped, shaking her head a little. Her curls flopped from side to side, having lost the bounce they once had.

"I'm sorry, I'm just back from a long mission! I'm Jet Lagged, I'm hungover and there's a fucking ghost sitting in my apartment! I'm allowed to be cranky."

"I think I'm in a worse place than you. Physically, mentally, and definitely spiritually," She eventually muttered.

"I'm not sorry I killed you," Clint sighed, giving her a look, "I was perfectly justified in my actions. You were an awful person in life."

"But I wasn't. Not really. You wouldn't understand, Clint Barton," She wanted to disappear, at least be alone for a little while, but found she couldn't. Last night she tested her restrictions. She could go anywhere in his apartment really, but not the hallway or outside the building.

"I probably wouldn't," He agreed, "I tend not to understand monsters."

Natasha's dull eyes sparked a little life and she growled, before lunging for him. Clint winced, anticipating the blow. He would let her hit him, he was far too hungover to fight. The spirit simply passed through him, chilling him for a second, before emerging behind him.

Natasha screamed. It was a shrill, strangled sound. Horrific really, one of the worst sounds Clint had ever heard.

"I know you're frustrated. But-" He paused, "But I promise I'll help you. I promise to help you rest. I owe you that much."

**A/N Please forgive me, the chapter is a lot shorter than what I would have liked. But yeah I hope you enjoyed! Please review. They make me happy!**

**Also follow me on tumblr at "Theavengingangelsarehere"**


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